SYOT Dead End: the Labyrinth Games
by belle of the ball s2
Summary: **OPEN** When you've got everything to lose, how hard will you fight to stay alive? The quest for survival starts now. 24 tributes. One Game. And a fight to the death in an Arena filled with natural disasters. The 1st Hunger Games are about to begin.
1. The First Hunger Games

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does. No profit is being made off of this. This is just fan work made for fans, by fans. And as always, anything you recognize belongs to the fabulous Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note: **Please submit your characters via PM. Any submitted through review will be ignored. The tribute form is on my profile.

Tributes are _not _necessarily first come, first serve, if I really like or dislike a tribute I may switch it up a bit. If you submit someone, and I like them, but I already have someone in that spot, I'll probably just change the district. Also, I have every right to change anything about your tribute, from their district to their hair color (although I will probably try to keep them close to what you fill out in this form).

If you submit multiple tributes, please try to submit at least one bloodbath—I really need them, and if I don't get enough, I'll just pick from the other tributes.

Please:

1. Do not make your character a Sue. If it is, it will _definitely _not be accepted.

2. Feel free to submit more than one tribute!

3. PM me any questions you have!

Thanks!

* * *

**Dead End: The Labyrinth Games**

_:: Chapter One : The First Hunger Games_

* * *

I gasped, my eyes wide with shock, unable to take in the scene before me, a scene painted in such vivid detail that it would be sure to haunt my dreams. My mind raced, desperately trying to process all that was going on around me.

I saw the ranks of soldiers slowly advancing, dark shapes silhouetted against the fiery backdrop, the fire glinting off the cold metal of their weapons. Their cruel faces, shadowed by the unforgiving light, seemed otherworldly, but a mask hiding the feral beast beneath, hungry for spilled blood and waiting to be unleashed.

I leapt into the fray, giving no regard to personal safety, pushing and shoving my way forward. I waded through trampled bodies, covered in gore and lying in pools of blood, slowly congealing. They may once have had lives, but now they are nameless, but a casualty of the battlefield to lie forgotten on the ground.

Paying me no heed, one of the soldiers lifted his gun, priming it expertly, his steely eyes fixed on what seemed his next kill, and an easy one at that. He released the trigger, the shot ringing clear in the night. My body, too weak to resist, crumpled lifelessly on the ground, my prone form twisted in odd angles.

* * *

In the ruins of a place once known as North America laid the nation of Panem. This nation was born when droughts, fires, hurricanes, tornados, and rising seas brought North America to an end. A glorious Capitol surrounded by thirteen districts, it lived in perfect harmony until the Dark Days. Civil war broke out and disaster arose—twelve districts were defeated and the thirteenth obliterated.

The citizens of Thirteen had been dead for almost a year, the rebellion they helped to spawn crushed to dust and the perpetrators gone to heel, dead or long forgotten.

The tenuous treaty with the hostile districts was wearing thin and both sides were readying for war, the call for arms long sent and answered for. The Capitol was in turmoil, and the fate of Panem balanced on a knife's edge.

So a new president was chosen to take up the mantle, President Magnus Snow, and a treaty, the Treaty of Treason, was created to keep the peace within Panem. In return, one year after the Dark Days, the Capitol promised a special reminder of why they must never be repeated, and thus Magnus decreed the start of what he termed the "Hunger Games", a brutal fight to the death between tributes from each of the twelve Districts, two for each Capitol citizen killed during the rebel uprising. Twelve Districts, twelve trades, each to cater to and serve Capitol whim.

Two Gamemakers were assigned to each district as mentors, one male, one female, with one mentor to watch over each tribute, twenty-four in all.

Back in the Capitol, the rest of the Gamemakers were discussing plans for the arena. The room rang with the sounds of heated conversation as each tried to be heard over the other, until one could only discern snippets of thought from amidst the rising volume of voices deep in conversation.

Hours later, as the sun began to set, they reached a final accord. Preparations for the Arena were started not a minute later, and so began the Capitol's reign of terror.

Now the day had finally come for the Capitol to fulfill their promise, and the districts dreaded it, but they were soon to realize that it wasn't taxes or more oppression, it was the Hunger Games.

"It's my pleasure to welcome the host for the first ever Annual Hunger Games. And now, without further ado, give it up for Pompey Tunstall!"

People cheered. Cameras flashed. The anthem played. And Panem took a collective breath.

The man called Pompey stepped on stage, dressed in a tailored green suit that shimmered under the lighting, his hair dyed chartreuse to match. The crowd quieted in anticipation as he began to speak.

He smiled, but he was nervous. He knew the speech by heart, but he could forget. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He was ready for this.

Families crowded around the screens as they flared to life, waiting, wondering. The TVs were brand new, placed in every home and in the District Squares. The face of Pompey Tunstall appeared on screen, the cityscape glimmering silver behind him. The ground seemed to move—there were that many people.

"Citizens of Panem," he said. "Welcome to the first Hunger Games."

He stopped speaking, knowing that most people would be whispering about what these "Hunger Games" were.

"Each year, two children aged twelve to eighteen will be reaped from each district to participate in the Games, which will give us twelve girls and twelve boys in total. However, someone can volunteer for these chosen tributes, though it is the tributes' final decision on whether they will allow the other to go in their place."

"A system for food distribution has also been instituted within each district, with slips of credit called tesserae. People with more tesserae will have a greater chance of being chosen for the Games."

"To increase the chances of survival, there will be supplies located in the Arena, with the tributes standing about twenty feet away on metal plates. Items will increase in value as tributes near the Cornucopia, and wealthy citizens may also sponsor their favorite tributes."

"Each tribute will be positioned at an entrance to the maze, with the choice being to run away or enter the maze. A force field has been installed around the perimeter of the Arena to keep the tributes within boundaries, and it will be reinforced daily with electricity."

"The twenty four brave souls will be coming here to the Capitol—to fight for honor, glory, and prestige. We here would like to remind Panem that it is not the Districts being punished, per se, but those who would harm us all for the sake of independence. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," And with this Tunstall stepped off stage, thunderous applause in his wake as he disappeared backstage, no doubt to prepare for his next appearance. He had done well though, and would will be pleased.

Gasps could be heard as the districts stared wide-eyed at him. The screen turned black, and people everywhere ran off to find their families and loved ones, many in tears.

The Capitol citizens sitting in the audience began to murmur in excitement, and the president's bloodless lips stretched in a smile. This would be a bloody and glorious Games.

* * *

The head Gamemaker ran a hand through her hair and sighed. It had been a busy day, preparing for the Games. The Arena was finally finished—the mutts chosen, the traps ready. It should be perfect. Now all that was left were the tributes.

* * *

The Peacekeepers, their numbers doubled since the rebellion, roughly grabbed at the younger children, hiding behind their mothers' skirts or clinging to their fathers' calloused hand. Cameras sat high above them on the rooftops, though the people below were oblivious to their presence.

They knew that it has something to do with the census, but what did the Capitol want with the lists, upon which had been printed the name and age of every child in Panem?

Far away in the Capitol, government officials sat at their desks, sheets of paper in front of them, their fingers flying as they struggled to copy down the speeches being dictated to them. Last minute adjustments were made and details finalized, each slip placed in an envelope with the corresponding District number. The heading on each envelope read "The Hunger Games".

The Hunger Games, a political weapon to punish the districts for their rebellion. The Capitol called it a pageant, but that could not be further from the truth—the Games were a plague upon the people.

* * *

It was Reaping Day, the first ever, and the District children woke up dreading it. Today, two from among them would be chosen, and even as they prayed for their own salvation, hoping too that their friends and family, all their loved ones, would be spared, their thoughts were bleak.

But the sun rose steadily in the sky, and their parents called them to breakfast. None of them had much of an appetite though, knowing full well that it might very well be the last time they would see their family again. They bade each other teary farewells, and headed off to the Square with their friends.

But it was silent, the air thick with tension as they savored their last moments, taking in the familiar sights, ones they had seen many times before this, but until now had paid no attention to, this time seeing with a sort of finality, a closing of a chapter of their lives.

They clustered together in the town square, corralled off by age like animals to the slaughter. On the surface, everything seemed fine—the children had no wish to give the Capitol any more reason to punish them, and so remained silent, but beneath the surface, tensions roiled. Their eyes were glassy, swimming with unshed tears, their scrunched noses rapidly turning red, but the sound of quiet sniffing and muffled sobs cannot be stopped.

The parents show equal distress, their fists clenched until the knuckles had long turned white, their pale cheeks betraying the fact that they clearly wished to be elsewhere. Their minds were filled with regrets, things they wished they had done, things they wished they had said but now might be too late to say or do.

Two glass balls sat on stage in the center of each district. Each child's name had been written on a slip and placed into the corresponding orb—if their name was drawn, the child would be forced to leave everything behind and become a tribute.

It had been explained to them that each district must offer two tributes, one male and one female between the ages of twelve and eighteen to compete in an Arena in a battle to the death, and that the last tribute standing would be then crowned Victor.

In contrast, the people of the Capitol were rejoicing, delighting in the festivities that would accompany this time of the year. They settled in front of their televisions, a bowl of popcorn nearby and a warm blanket—or lover—tucked in beside them.

These were people who clearly revel in their wealth, who were fortune's favorites, installed comfortably in the very lap of luxury. In their desire for entertainment, however one sided, they condemned to death twenty-three more, gambling upon the very stakes of life and death, yet they could not care less.

* * *

The tributes opened their eyes. Twenty feet away was the Cornucopia. Supplies were scattered everywhere, deadly weapons and packs of food piled high around it, throwing shadows at their feet.

The tributes' blood chilled, their spines tingled, and fear gnawed in their gut. But the Careers were tense, poised to run as soon as the gong went off, their eyes scanning over the weapons. This was the Hunger Games, and the more blood and gore, the better.

The gong rung out, the sound loud in the silence of the Arena. All hell broke loose as the tributes leapt off their plates and sprinted away in different directions, some towards the Cornucopia and others disappearing into the maze.

* * *

Welcome to the first Hunger Games, the first year of betrayal, loss, and murder. But there is something they had never expected, never intended to be born of these Games. Love. Twenty four tributes go in, but only one can come out. But these kids were more than just pieces, they were people, each with their own stories. This is the story of what twenty four tributes did for the ones they love.

This is a story of ends, not means. A story of cunning, not brute force. A story of betrayal, not love. This is the story of the Hunger Games.

* * *

Rules:

1. One winner.

2. No rebellion.

3. No suicide.

Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.

* * *

Sponsor System:

Earning Points:

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	2. District One: Pretty Boy

**Dead End: The Labyrinth Games**

_:: Chapter Two : Soren St. Lucitaire_

* * *

Eerie whispers

Trapped beneath my pillow

Won't let me sleep

Your memories

And I know you're in this room

I'm sure I heard you sigh

Floating in between

Where our worlds collide

Scares the hell out of me

And the end is all I can see

And it scares the hell out of me

And the end is all I can see

And I know the moment's near

And there's nothing you can do

Look through a faithless eye

Are you afraid to die?

_**Thoughts of a Dying Atheist – Muse**_

* * *

Soren stepped into the classroom, watching as the students fell silent around him. A few of his "friends" elbowed their way forward to greet him, and it just so happened that Soren had a task for them—they were not really his friends, though they liked to think of themselves as such, but mindless cronies who would do what he wanted if the pay was high enough.

Soren's eyes lit up when he spied Mylar lurking around, and he pulled the boy into a corner to talk. Soren knew he could trust Mylar—he was a tough, beefy guy with everything except brains, good at following orders but hopeless in the creativity department. Mylar was his go to person if Soren had something he needed someone to sort out or explain—he was remarkably persuasive.

Soren explained the plan to Mylar and his cronies, and as they nodded their heads, he knew the deed was as good as done. Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to get caught in the act himself, and he knew that the cronies would leave no tracks, at least none that could be traced back to him.

Generally, no punishment was dealt out, since although everyone knew that it was him who had done it, or had gotten someone to do it, they were unable to prove it—there was never any tangible evidence.

His cronies were especially good at intimidating people who annoyed him, and in fact they had, just the other day, scared off the kids who had been bullying Rioro. Soren knew that Rioro was an objectively better person than himself, and he tried not to show it, but he was actually quite fond of his little brother.

Soren slept through most of his classes, and as he gathered up his books to leave, he decided to make a pit stop at the Training Center before going home—to see how his plan would play out.

* * *

Soren smirked as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His plan was relatively simple: trick the four oldest—and most annoying, at least to him—Careers into fighting among themselves.

Soren wasn't a Career per se, but he spent a fair amount of time at the Training Center. It was ostensibly in preparation for the tiny chance that he would be reaped, but in reality, he just liked pointy objects and had begged his parents until they let him go.

The Peacekeeper Academy, or Career Academy, an institution founded to train soldiers in the arts of war and strategy, was a practice that had carried over from the Dark Days, during the time of the rebellions. People had often jokingly referred to these people—generally from Districts One, Two, and Four—as Careers. These Careers were the soldiers of the Capitol, and their purpose was to "keep the peace" in the district they were assigned to.

They were the ultimate warriors, unbeatable. These would be the people who would have the advantage in the Arena—cruel, heartless, and _very_ capable—whose alliance would rule the Arena and, ultimately, win the Games.

The four boys that Soren was now focusing on—Tassel, Justin, Cimber, and Lupus—had found Soren no end of annoying and made a point of beating him up at every opportunity they got, although it wasn't so much a rivalry as a rout.

Poise, a nephew of a friend of his father's, would stand up for Soren whenever he was around, and the boys had learned to behave around him—he had a mean left uppercut that they had experienced firsthand many times. Poise had won Soren's grudging respect for it, and they had gradually forged a tentative friendship over the years.

Soren ducked beneath the doorway of the training center, weaving his way around the pairs of hopeful Careers-in-training as they dueled. Their cold eyes, hard as diamond, were set in stony faces that were lit by the sparks flying off the edge of their blunted swords, illuminating the determined expressions chiseled onto their faces.

He watched as a slim boy, gingery copper hair falling across his freckled face, slipped behind the Careers to where their packs were stored.

Titus was thirteen, with the pale skin and grubby clothes that identified him as a street urchin yet were carefully cultivated as a disguise for where his true talents lay. He was famed district-wide as a pickpocket and thief, and his skills at such were legendary, but his ragged looks could almost deceive one into believing that he was truly harmless.

Titus silently eased the knife out from the belt Cimber wore, pulling it out of the leather sheath looped around the older boy's waist. He stowed the knife in Justin's bag, cutting a small gash in its side from which to slip it through, and tossed it back onto the heap of tangled canvas.

He darted away out the back door, his footsteps light but his pockets heavy with Soren's gold. He would be gone by the time Cimber noticed the loss of his prized knife.

* * *

Half an hour later, the bell rang to signal the end of the day's training. The foursome, wiping the sweat from their faces, hung up their weapons and headed for the locker room. Soren followed them, taking care to stay a fair distance away in order to avoid detection.

Cimber, stripping off his shirt and tossing it casually aside, made his way toward the showers on the opposite end of the room, the others not far behind him. Soren could hear the boys' chatter over the sound of running water, and admittedly, he was curious, but he didn't dare go closer. Whatever else you could say about him, Soren wasn't stupid.

Soren heard the sound of water being turned off and quickly ducked back behind the curtain, the shadows hiding his slim form. Moments later, hair dripping, the Careers exited the showers, their footsteps loud in the silence. Tassel punched Cimber playfully in the shoulder, the others laughing raucously at something he'd said.

They toweled off, changing back into their street clothes, their sweat-soaked T shirts tossed carelessly into their bags. The second bell sounded—ten minutes before the Center would close—and the boys left, Soren sprinting after them.

The group turned a corner, slowing as they neared the exit, and Soren followed suit, flinging a hand out against the wall to brace himself. But his foot slipped, and he lost his balance, his body skidding across the polished granite.

The Careers turned at the sound, Cimber stepping forward to assess the threat, the others melting fluidly around him. His eyes flared maliciously as he caught sight of Soren, sprawled out awkwardly on the ground.

The boys stiffened behind him, their arms folded over their chests and narrowed eyes challenging, Soren lifted a hand weakly in greeting, his slate gray eyes dancing with suppressed amusement before flicking away almost dismissively.

Cimber flushed beet red at the implied insult, a vein throbbing spastically at his temple. His hand reached threateningly for his knife as he stepped closer to Soren, his face darkening when he couldn't find it.

His mood rapidly soured as he carefully patted down his pockets, then his pack. He whirled on the others, his stormy gray eyes flashing with angry betrayal.

"If any of you took it …" His voice trailed off threateningly.

Soren took this as his cue to leave, and he did, taking advantage of their distraction. The Careers, clearly preoccupied, paid Soren no heed as he slipped past them to safety—to home.

* * *

"I'm home!" Soren called out to the empty foyer. He rolled his eyes as he heard his voice echo back at him. _I'm home. I'm home._ Stupid to think that his parents might be at home—or even care if they were.

His parents were just a source of money, but only because he knew they weren't exactly drowning in love for him, either. To them, Soren's main use was as an heir, and they preferred that he stay out of their way as a general rule. Needless to say, he wasn't hugged much as a child.

The front door slammed shut behind Soren as he shed his coat. He ducked under the doorway of the small room off the foyer, depositing his jacket on top of the pile already cluttering the area of tiled floor next to the brushed iron and stainless steel sides of the washing machine.

He removed his boots gingerly, dropping the muddy things next to the heap of his unwashed clothes, excess mud spattering the area around him upon impact. Soren stripped off his socks with practiced hands and tossed those too onto the steadily mounting stack of jackets and shirts, glanced at it again, and dumped the clothes into the larger clothes hamper directly across the room. He took one last look and turned to go, squinting his eyes to see in the bright light that suddenly flooded his senses.

From narrowed slits, Soren followed the aroma of burnt sugar and chocolate to the kitchen, where the cook stood behind the counter stirring a pot of some dark substance that bubbled and hissed on the stove. Steam rose around her and she slipped on mitts and pulled out a tray of something—brownies—from the oven.

The housekeeper, an aged matron with no children of her own, smiled warmly at Soren as she cut out a portion of the brownie for him, the caramelized chocolate fudge on top crackling as she sliced into it. Digging through the cluttered contents of the fridge, she pulled out a carton of vanilla bean ice cream and scooped a generous portion out onto the brownie, drizzling warm fudge—the brown stuff on the stove—onto it and handing the plate to Soren. The brownie was still hot, and melted chocolate oozed out from where it had been cut.

Soren muttered a reluctant thanks, nodding slightly at the woman as he attempted to balance the plate in one hand. He turned to leave, scooping up his bag from where he had deposited it by the entrance of the foyer and heading upstairs to his room.

* * *

Soren jerked awake, his arms flailing and sending a nearby lamp crashing to the ground as he attempted to fight off the intruders in his dream. He could hear the sound the wood made as it splintered on the tiled floor, the glass of the bulb tinkling atop the mangled wood.

He threw back the silken covers of his bed, leaping nimbly to his feet. Soren shrugged on the robe that lay folded beside him and padded quietly to the adjoining bathroom, which he shared with his younger brother Rioro.

Soren glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand—its glowing digits read five thirty. It was the crack of dawn, and the sun glowed from behind the drawn blinds in brilliant shades of rose and gold.

Snatching a towel from the pile that perched on the shelf above the sink, Soren wet it with cold water, using it to mop up the sweat that had gathered in rivulets on his face. The house was silent around him, and he could hear the distant sound of crickets chirping in the nearby forest. His brother was still asleep, snoring softly in the next room, and his parents too slept peacefully in their beds upstairs.

Soren walked back to his room, closing the door carefully behind him, and selected a book from the pile on his dresser. The book was an Old World classic, Machiavelli's _The Prince_, which he had taken from his father's bookshelves yesterday, and he picked up from where he had left off last night.

_The Prince_ was an interesting piece, and Soren immersed himself in its provocative words—time flew, and soon it was seven. He put down the book reluctantly, sliding one of his mother's pilfered ribbons between its printed pages.

Soren got dressed, rifling through his closet for a pair of dark jeans and a black dress shirt. He picked his way around the piles of clothing strewn carelessly on the ground—someone, probably the hapless maid, would be around later to pick it up for him before he returned—and pulled his shirt on, leaving it untucked, the sleeves rolled casually up to his

elbows. His tousled hair was a medium brown and stuck out above his face, his smug expression profoundly irritating.

Soren cast a final appraising glance at the mirror—the boy staring back at him was slim and willowy, with aristocratic features and piercing blue grey eyes. He was about five foot eleven and had perfect posture, a few scars here and there but nothing that would really catch anyone's eye.

He turned and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth, filling a glass with warm water and removing his toothbrush from the cup in the overhead cabinet. Soren grimaced—the toothpaste tasted like mint, and he had to gargle the water repeatedly to get the dry taste out of his mouth.

Soren dragged his comb through his unruly locks in an attempt to get it to lay flat, but his effort was futile, as always, and his hair refused to be tamed—perhaps, he reflected, like himself. He turned away, tugging at the starched collar of his shirt, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

The cook had fixed him a large breakfast—eggs, crunchy bacon, and a warm biscuit—but Soren had no appetite. He poured syrup from its crystal pitcher in a golden stream onto his stack of pancakes, drenching them with sticky amber. He picked at the rich pancakes, cutting them up into tiny slivers with his knife and feeding them into his mouth one by one.

He sipped at his mug of steaming coffee, blowing at it to cool it down. Soren watched the bitter brew swirl in its china confines as he carefully plunked two cubes of crumbling sugar into the coffee. Soren inhaled the aroma, chocolate sweet with its infusion of cacao—the cook always insisted on adding the powder into his coffee, but he didn't mind.

Normally, Soren would be heading to school now—public school, since his parents had wanted him to be able to better understand the "common people," whatever that meant. Not that they did themselves, filthy rich snobs that they were. Frankly, Soren thought that his parents just didn't want the bother of sending him to the better and more expensive private school on the other side of the district—not that they couldn't afford it or anything.

Instead, Soren was to head to the District Square with his brother Rioro. It was his brother's first reaping, and he was nervous, but the son of the Lord St. Lucitaire would be expected to make his appearance.

Soren gave his brother a gentle push towards his friends as he headed for the sixteen year olds' section, the people parting before him as he passed by, slipping in between two of his cronies at the front of the Square.

The mayor of the district, a man named Nicodemus Valentine, stepped on stage, making his way behind the podium that had been set up the previous day and carefully draped with a cloth bearing the seal of the Capitol.

Nicodemus was a friend of his father's and possibly one of Soren's least favorite people. The feeling was mutual. They didn't disagree over anything specific, they just rubbed each other the wrong way and ended up sending each other death glares whenever they ended up in the same room. He was the first thing one would imagine when they pictured a robber baron—an overweight guy with a mustache in an expensive suit.

The mayor cleared his throat and began his speech. "… In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public 'Reaping'. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol. And then transferred to a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games."

Soren barely stifled a yawn as the mayor droned on, beyond bored out of his mind. After all, why should he care? It wasn't as though the son of the Lord _St. Lucitaire_ would ever be reaped, right? Right?

_Whatever._ Soren rolled his eyes. He wouldn't—couldn't—be chosen. After all, it was District One, _Career_ District One.

The escort—Kerei Bastinado—bounced on stage, a painfully OCD middle-aged man who dressed like a pirate.

"Welcome! Welcome! Welcome! Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor. Now, before we begin, we have a very special film brought to you all the way from the Capitol." Soren tuned out as Kerei began to speak, rapidly losing interest.

"Soren St. Lucitaire." The escort said. Kerei was clearly confused, his eyes flicking back and forth between the crumpled slip he still held loosely in his hand—the stark black letters against creamy ivory parchment that spelled out his name, undeniable, in elegant, ink dark calligraphy—and the stage, where Soren's father was seated. He looked stern in his dark gray two piece, his expression like stone, cold and not a bit caring.

"Soren St. Lucitaire?" His voice, high pitched and inimitably Capitol, broke through his reverie.

Soren blinked, then rose, walking slowly toward the stage—toward his fate, his inevitable death—one measured step after the other.

The people parted fluidly before him, but no one moved to volunteer. Not one person, not one Career, so much as twitched in the next minute.

"Oh … That's not good." Soren laughed nervously.

_Cold fish. Snob. Useless rich kid. Spoiled._ He could hear their whispers, haunting in their simple truth. Arrogant, to think he wouldn't be chosen. Yes he, Soren St. Lucitaire, had been arrogant. Stupid.

But how? The question was how. Then, in a moment of stark finality, he knew. He understood.

His fault. It had been his fault. His mind flashed back to several weeks ago. Justin had bragged that he would volunteer, half joking and half not, but Cimber had swiftly shot him down, claiming that honor for himself.

Soren had laughed at the time, thought them both stupid for _wanting_ to volunteer, but now? Now, he just wished someone—anyone, really—would volunteer. But no one had, and now, no one would.

It was his fault, really, however indirect. Those four Careers, however irritating they had been to him personally, had been the only ones who had been willing to volunteer for him, regardless of who he as, and not to save him per se, but rather for their own glory.

But now, he didn't care. He just wanted to live.

"Congratulations, Soren!" The escort chirped, shaking his hand. A bright smile was plastered on his face, but his eyes … his eyes were almost sad.

Soren smiled tentatively back, not quite sure what to make of him.

"Congratulations to Soren St. Lucitaire, our male tribute from District One!" The escort's voice rang out.

The applause was deafening, and if Soren wasn't as happy as he should have been, no one knew it. With Soren, one could never be sure, and now that his fate had been sealed, no one would ever know.


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	4. District One: It Girl Part I

**Dead End: The Labyrinth Games**

_:: Chapter Three : Parvati Charm_

* * *

Parvati burst through the door of Avel's room, her face bright with excitement. She had let herself in through the back door, tiptoeing quietly, carefully upstairs to his room.

"Avel! Surpri—" Parvati trailed off. "Avel?"

"Oh my god … " Parvati held in a scream, willing herself not to cry—not in front of Avel. Damn it, she refused to give him and that _whore _the pleasure of seeing her break down in front of them.

She rubbed furiously at her eyes, trying to wipe away everything she had just seen. _No … It _couldn't _be true._

"I … Avel." Parvati stuttered, her mind unable to form words.

Today was Avel's seventeenth birthday, and she had been so hyped up—so eager to spend the day with Avel. _God, she had been so _naïve_. _

Parvati had meant to surprise him—had come here to surprise him, but today, it was her that was surprised. Today, the joke was on her.

Although really, it shouldn't have been such a surprise. She should have at least _expected _it. After all, he _was _the self proclaimed playboy—and unofficial high school heartthrob—of District One.

Parvati had been completely taken in with his golden good looks, his smoldering, sexy blue eyes, his tousled, honey blond hair, his chiseled cheekbones and that defined jawline that could cut glass … God, Avel was so sexy—so irresistible, it was almost impossible to stay mad at him. The operative word being almost.

Really, it wasn't such a shock that some other girl had fallen for his many … charms. Not such a shock that Avel had _betrayed _her. Right. And she was _stupid_.

In fact … Parvati looked more closely at the girl. Long, titian red hair, creamy skin flushed an almost delicate pink, deceptively innocent, doe brown eyes, freckles _everywhere _… Candace—Candace Lepore. That slut … The absolute nerve!

_Candace …_ Parvati blinked back tears. She couldn't believe that Avel had done that to her … and with the District _whore_.

Parvati wasn't blind, despite what everyone else might think of her. She knew all about Candace's … other exploits, her laughing, easy ways that the other boys so adored. She was Avel's feminine counterpart, but with supposedly less morals, if she had them at all.

She just couldn't take it anymore. Parvati turned, breaking into a dead sprint. She just wanted to escape—to forget.

Let that slut have him, they deserved each other … A match made in hell.

"Parvati … I can explain." Avel called after her, his voice desperate. Avel's eyes were so blue—the exact stormy, conflicted shade as the sky in District One—yet so haunting in their faux sincerity.

_Fuck him. Just … fuck him. Fuck society and all its expectations._

* * *

Parvati stumbled onto the street, her navy blue eyes filling with tears.

"Parvati? Is that you?" Parvati hesitated. _Cy? Cy Thessaly? Her best friend since third grade. _It _was _him, in all his familiar, boy next door glory. Sandy brown hair that fell messily into concerned, moss green eyes, all tanned skin and blindingly white smile.

"Charm!" He enveloped her in a warm hug, his green eyes crinkled with worry.

"Are … Are you all right? I don't mean to intrude or anything, but …" He trailed off, hesitant. _Cy was so sweet … nice, in a land where chivalry had been long since dead. _

"I … Yeah, I guess. Avel—" Parvati stopped.

He stroked her hair softly. _Go on … Avel?_

* * *

This was the start of Charm and Cy, the fair lady and her knight in shining armor. But as we all know, Lancelot and Guinevere, their love had ended in tragedy. And so would theirs, the golden couple of District One.

But for now … paradise. Heaven on earth, at least so for _Parvati_.

Until one day, when …

* * *

"So, dinner at my place?" Parvati asked, turning to gaze lovingly at Cy. Her _boyfriend_.

"Actually … Well, it's just … I don't think we should be _together _anymore." Cy said uncomfortably.

Parvati was incredulous. "Are _you _breaking up with _me_?" To think that he, Cy Thessaly, dared to break up with _her_, the thought was simply inconceivable.

In the past, she had always been the one to break things off, but … Cy had always been different. He was _her _Cy, and that made him special in a way no one else had ever been.

"Well … Yes." Cy hated to do this to her, but it couldn't be helped. Yet, gazing into Charm's seemingly fathomless blue eyes, as enigmatic to him as they had ever been, he couldn't quite bring himself to go through with it. That was the effect Charm had on people. Charm was _charming_.

"I …" As Cy looked on, those dark, long lashed blue eyes began to well with tears. He couldn't help but to feel awful for doing this to her …

Parvati shrank away. "Get the fuck away from me!" She spat, her eyes flashing with angry, almost bewildered hatred.

Whoever had said hell hath no fury like a woman scorned … Well, Charm was that woman.

"What the fuck?" Cy backed away, holding his hands up in surrender.

"What the fuck?" Parvati mimicked, her voice saccharine sweet. She shook her head in disgust.

"See? _That _is exactly why I broke up with you!" _… You spoiled, materialistic _bitch_!_ He finished in his head.

"What?!" Parvati shrieked, her pretty face flushed red with anger. _Oops, maybe not so private after all …_

"You want mean? I'll show you mean!"

* * *

"Fuck you!"

"Hey, you know you want to … Fuck … Charm, oh god! I'm going to come! Charm!" Parvati mocked. "Sound familiar?"

* * *

"Even motherfucking Avel was a better lay. _You _would know, wouldn't you?" _Bad idea. _Charm really should have known better.

"Damn it, you—" Cy exploded.

And then … "Are you fucking kidding me? Avel … Avel. Fucking. Paris!" Cy bit out.

"I really thought I knew you better than that, Charm." He shook his head in disbelief. "Well, what do you want me to say? Have a happy fucking life."

With that, Cy Thessaly walked out of her room—and out of her life.

And well, that was the end of Charm and Cy, the jilted lady and her knight in not so shining armor.


	5. Update: Banner & Fan Art

_**Dead End **_**Banner / Fan Art Contest**

* * *

Entries will be accepted **April 1**** 2013 **– **July 31**** 2013**

Winners will be announced **August**** 8**** 2013**

* * *

**First Place : **

_**100 Sponsor Points **_

_**Writing commission :**_ You may request any category, any rating, any genre, any length, anything at all. This includes more fanfiction written about my own stories. This includes lemons.

_Mention something to me and we'll see what we can do. _

**First Runner Up : **

_**75 Sponsor Points **_

Will only receive a one shot of anything you choose.

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**Second Runner Up : **

_**50 Sponsor Points **_

A promotion in the author's note of any of my stories.

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* * *

_* If you have any ideas about something else you want to try, just let me know._

* * *

**Contact:**

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